


if you'd come back and help me breathe

by umtyde



Category: Girl Meets World
Genre: F/F, SO, and it's so rushed, and the angst kinda cut a hole in me, and this is way too long, but you'll probs regret it, okay i can't be bothered naming all the characters, read it if you must, you see it should've been much shorter but halsey inspired me to write a roadtrip
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-19
Updated: 2016-07-19
Packaged: 2018-07-25 11:25:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7530901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/umtyde/pseuds/umtyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>high school feelings do an excellent job at following you through life (and riley knows it better than anyone)</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you'd come back and help me breathe

 -x-

You’re supposed to be asleep, actually, you were supposed to be asleep well over two hours ago but Maya’s a little too giddy and you’re - while truly drained and exhausted to no end - too stubborn for your own good.

You’re sat opposite one another, legs crossed, knees touching and sides pressed against your headboard.

It hasn’t been like this for a _long_ time. You’ve lost count of all the missed sleepovers in the heat of the school year; all the Fridays she’s spent at her _own_ apartment, instead of wrapped up beside you in a safety net of purple _everything._

She’s telling you about how she’d managed another A on her Roman History report and you notice the atmosphere shift. She’s happy – no, beyond happy. She’s proud; proud of herself and proud of what she’s finally beginning to prove: _she’s a fuck of a load more than just a pretty face and a shitty attitude._

(You have no doubt about that.)

You smile and take her hands in yours. “I knew you had it in you.”

For a moment, it’s just the two of you, and you’re so fucking ecstatic to _finally_ have some quality _RileyandMaya_ time.

But her phone lights up with _his_ name and she’s distracted for the rest of the night.

She doesn’t look at you, she doesn’t _try_ to and you begin to feel your whole demeanour falter.

(She’s passed out on her side of the bed when you realise this may not have been such a great idea.)

Fuck you, Lucas.

-x-

You’re by the lockers - all six of you plus some redhead whose name you don’t care to remember and you swear you’ve never seen Maya _this_ aggravated.

“Say it again,” she whispers, her face inching closer to the mystery girl’s, “I _dare_ you.” Her voice is hard, maybe a little too hard and her eyes hold that foreign cloud of resentment; you swallow apprehensively.

The girl smirks. She’s a little taller than Maya but not quite as intimidating, (It’s hard to be when you’re pinned against the wall).

“The boy’s _weak_ ,” she snaps.

Silence.

The way Maya tilts her head shoots an ominous thrill through the whole fucking school and before you have the chance to react – before you’re able to call someone or do _something_ \- she throws her fist.

You turn your head moments before the girl’s jaw clicks and the impact makes you flinch.

Lucas is at her side, trying and failing to contain _your_ best friend, you pretend not to notice.

She throws another punch and you watch as the girl’s nose starts to bleed and bruise, blue and purple. Her head falls in defeat and then--

“Hey!”

_Fuck._

You hold your breath and turn, promptly greeted by the sour gaze of your father.

(You feel the vicious energy freeze in the background.)

“Ms. Hart. Principal’s office. Now!”

She scoffs but obeys, not before glaring back at the redhead, though, who advertised the same unearthly expression.

“Ms. Adams, you too.”

_Oh, would you look at that. Bitch has a name._

-x-

You spot her from across the hall, or rather, you pick out the back of her head.

(You know it’s her. She’s always the last to walk out of the detention room.)

“Maya!” You call, a little too loudly, maybe.

“Hey, Honey.” She walks over to you and an anger – that you _hope_ is misplaced - rises in your chest.

You give her _that_ look and she sighs, running a hand through her hair.

“What were you thinking? You could’ve been suspended!”

She shrugs.

“You’re right, I _could_ have been. But I wasn’t.”

“Whatever, Maya,” you say.

There’s a brief moment of wired silence and you don’t _want_ to be mad at her but something about this whole situation just _really_ pisses you off.

(You’ve no clue what it is and frankly, you have no interest in finding out. Not yet anyway.)

“Detention for a week,” she announces and you tilt your head in confusion.

“Matthews talked to the principal.”

Her explanation’s too vague or perhaps you’re just too tired to take it all in. Either way, you urge for her to go on.

“That _bitch_ caused this, not me. She got what she deserved.”

(Neither of you utter a word the whole way home.)

-x-

“Who was that?” you ask; Maya hangs up and throws her phone towards the bed. She shifts, awkwardly, on her side of the bay window and scans her fingernails. “Ranger Rick.”

(You feel a sharp pang of _something_ in your chest.)

“What did he want?”

“Oh, he was just thanking me.”

“Again?” She nods, absent.

You clear your throat.

“Maya, what made you do… _that_?”

“I don’t know. I guess she just pissed me off. I mean-” she sighs, “-I get making fun of the cowboy and all but you can’t just go around saying stuff like _that_ unless you’re asking to lose your head.”

“You really care about him, don’t you?”

“I do. I care about all of us.”

You don’t get the chance to respond - your brother calls for you to eat and you feel somewhat relieved(?)

Maya takes your hand and drags you out the door. “C’mon, I’m hungry.” She says.

(You tense at the sudden contact.)

-x-

“How was your day, girls?”

“It was great, Mrs. Matthews,” Maya says, in that strange, excessively cheerful way. Topanga tilts her had at you, confused.

“No, mom, it wasn’t _great._ Maya hit someone. Multiple times,” you snap, your voice stern, taut even.

“Oh?” Topanga takes a sip from her mug; she doesn’t even _look_ mad and it boils your blood.

“Some girl was being rude to Lucas so I hit her.” Maya gives you a look – a side glance if you will - before turning her full attention back to your mother.

“Well, what did she say?”

“It’s not important.”

The conversation’s over as quickly as it started and an uncomfortable silence is quick to settle in its place, you can’t bring yourself to care, though.

“Riley, Honey, why aren’t you eating?” your dad speaks up from across the table.

(You’d barely even noticed he was _at_ the table.)

“I’m not hungry.” You pause briefly before standing. “Can I go to my room?”

Your parents exchange a look. And after a moment, Topanga nods, confused, and you leave, rolling your eyes for the thousandth time that night.

-x-

“Where is he?” Zay turns his head in the sheer hope of spotting Lucas’ too perfect face _somewhere_ over the crowd of jocks and misfits and theatre kids that all happen to be in the school’s cafeteria; at this exact place, at this exact point in time. Farkle shrugs, “I haven’t seen him.”

“I literally just saw him 10 minutes ag--“

“Hey guys!”

(Your heartbeat surges.)

You turn, hesitantly, and the sight makes you cringe. Lucas has his arm wrapped firmly around Maya’s waist, a lunch tray occupying his free hand.

You exhale sharply and invite them to sit down as you always do; Maya beside you and Lucas opposite.

“Where were you?” Zay asks, resting a hand on his best friend’s shoulder.

“I was with Maya.”

He presses his eyebrows together, “Yeah, I gathered _that_ much, smartass.”

“We were talking outside, no big deal,” Maya cuts in, perhaps too quickly for you to _completely_ brush it off as a typical ‘Maya thing’ to say.

“Why _outside_? Why not in--”

“Peaches,” you interrupt, (you’re impulsive, it’s nothing new). “Yeah, Sunshine.”

“Do you wanna come over for dinner?” She glances at Lucas for less than a second and you hold your breath. “Sorry, Riles, I promised Lucas I’d study with him after my detention.”

“Oh.”

“Hey.” She places a hand on yours. “Maybe tomorrow? All of us?”

“Sure, whatever.”

That _something_ in your chest rises unexpectedly for the fifth time that hour.

(You want to go home.)

-x-

You wait for her, though it may not have been the smartest move, she’s still your best friend and you still love her more than anything. Besides, this is normal. You do this all the time.

(You don’t. Not anymore at least. Not since middle school.)

You’re sat, cross-legged, on the linoleum, tracing mindless patterns on your kneecap, head down and back against the cold locker doors. It’s times like these when your brain takes a little more control than it needs to and you find yourself thinking about certain things you’re better off _not_ thinking about

(One hundred percent of the time, you blame it on the deadly quiet.)

You shake your thoughts away before they grow too intense – as in ‘I’m having my midlife crisis at 15’ intense - and you’re relaxed, but only for a moment.

You spot the back of her head across the hall and much like the day before, she trails out of the detention room behind everyone else.

You want to call for her, hell, you’re _about_ to call for her. But _he_ just happens to show up from around the corner and your voice gives in immediately.

She grins at him and he smiles back, that stupidly perfect smile – _fuck his Texas charm_. Your face drops as the two of them link arms and head towards the main doors and it’s when you realize they’re probably on their way to their ‘study date’ that that stupid fucking _feeling_ slaps you right in the face.

(You’re hurt and you don’t know why.)

-x-

You wake up that night four times over before finally deciding to give up on sleep all together. You breathe out, exasperated, and hastily reach to grab your laptop from beside the bay window seat.

You sigh, resting your palms on both sides of your head, you take a fistful of hair in each hand before the screen lights up and your eyes narrow on impulse.

You blink twice and focus on the time.

3:26am.

_How fucking perfect._

You shift back towards the wall and pull your _purplepurplepurple_ sheets up to your chest.

(It’s the middle of the night, you can’t sleep, you’re _exhausted_ and for some twisted reason, you decide to blog about it.)

You _start_ a post -  something along the lines of ‘I think my long-forgotten feelings for this boy haven’t exactly diminished the way I thought they had and now I can’t sleep because of it…’ – but delete it immediately.

You don’t like Lucas. You know you don’t. You look at him and you don’t feel that spark, you talk to him and you don’t feel yourself bubbling with joy after every repetitive story he attempts to tell you. He’s your brother, nothing more. You’re sure of it.

But then where the hell did this _ache_ come from?

Once again, you choose to dismiss it, though it takes much less than fifteen minutes to stumble across a picture that instantly reminds you of _him_ and _her_ and how perfect they look together and you’re literally willing to _choke_ when that godawful feeling makes a grand reappearance.

(You know you can’t ignore it much longer.)

There’s a guy and a girl, they’re sat, fingers interlaced, backs facing the camera. They’re both blonde. She has her head resting in the crook of his neck and you don’t need to see their faces to know that they’re happy.

You take a deep breath and try to steady your heartbeat before resuming your mindless scrolling.

_They’re just friends. They’re just friends. They’re just friends._

(You don’t know why you care so much.)

 

It’s around four o’ clock when it happens.

You jerk upright, almost knocking the air out of your lungs and the laptop off your bed and you tell yourself you paused only because the colors caught your attention.

(And that they did.)

It’s the rainbows, that’s all. It has absolutely nothing to do with the small blocks of text beneath each collection of colored stripes or the title that reads – in big, bold letters – ‘The Vast Spectrum of Identity.’

_Well, fuck._

You don’t mean to, you swear, but by 4:07, you’ve read _all_ about the seemingly endless range of sexualities and by 4:22, you’re more than able to match each flag with each definition and by 4:35, you’re an emotional train wreck – crying, not from sadness – but from relief. Because for once, it seems as though everything’s just falling into place, all by itself.

(You’ve never been more at ease.)

But by 6am, your tears have long passed through countless stages of joy and now you’re nothing short of a sealed package; recklessly cornered by an impossible amount of fear and guilt.

Fear, because you know how unaccepting and relentless people can be and guilt because: _how_ could you do this to Maya?

Your best friend finally has the chance to be happy with somebody who isn’t you, and this time you refuse to let your own simplistic foundation of self-pity and insecurity take that away from her.

And it’s not like she chose a bad guy.

You _want_ to hate Lucas, you really do. But this is the boy you once had a crush on, the same guy who made your stomach explode with happiness and butterflies and everything good in the world at once. He’s the guy who protected _you_ and everyone else, protected you from all the terrible, terrible things in the world and it made your heart light up like nothing ever could. There once was a time when you felt your knees weaken from his touch; every time you held hands and every time your shoulders brushed in the crowded hallways of your simple middle school lives.

(It’s hard to admit that it’s no longer _him_ that makes you feel that way and you’re just now realizing: perhaps it’s been _her_ all along.)

He’s perfect for Maya and that’s what gets to you the most.

(You’re jealous. And now you know why.)

-x-

You’re woken unexpectedly only moments after you finally make it to sleep and you shriek in mere panic when a whole body lands on your upper half and a waterfall of blonde hair blurs your vision. You blink, rapidly, in a foul attempt to eliminate the tiredness from your swollen eyes.

The bed dips beside you and naturally, you turn to face the source of the movement.

_Brown eyes meet blue and oh, god, it’s enchanting._

“Hi, honey.” (She smiles so wide you physically feel your heart melt.) “How are you feeling?”

You yawn. “Not well.”

Maya pouts - it’s positively adorable - and pushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear.

(If it was anyone else you would have smacked them already.)

“Well then, I guess we’re having a sick day.”

She kisses your forehead before literally prancing out of the room and yelling at the very top of her lungs: “Hey, Matthews! Have fun without us!”

You tense up at the word “us.”

-x-

You wake up - from a nap you don’t recall falling into - at around noon. You’re in bed still, limbs mindlessly sprawled across the mattress and a disturbingly large chunk of hair merely centimetres from your mouth.

“Afternoon, Honey,” Maya says.

You smile, a huge, toothy grin, and sit up, gazing in her general direction. Maya’s sat in the bay window, one leg beneath her and the other leg hanging off the seat, swinging absently. Phone in hand. Hair to one side. Glowing golden and bathed in sunlight.

(The whole scene looks so immaculate; you almost feel like you never woke up.)

She looks up at you and her face falls far too quickly.

“You’re not ill,” she states, matter-of-factly, her eyebrows press together in a mix of sadness and concern and sympathy and _oh, god, she knows._

“You were up all night…” her voice is tender and sweet and suddenly you feel ten inches tall, (it’s ironic, really). “You’ve been crying,” she adds after a moment and you purse your lips.

“What makes you say that?”

“Your eyes,” she says. “They were red this morning, they’re not anymore.”

She inches towards you and you shift backwards ever so slightly. “Honey,” she starts but you cut her off, “I’m fine, Maya! Maybe I was just tired, I don’t know!”

She’s taken aback by your outburst, that much is clear.

You stand, suddenly, and walk over to the door. “I’m going to watch a movie,” you say before leaving.

(She doesn’t bring it up for the rest of the day.)

 

A few hours have passed since your incident with Maya and you can tell she isn’t mad but for some reason you can’t seem to get over that unsettling feeling of growing shame(?) in the pit of your stomach.

Sometime between six and eight, Maya left to meet the others at your mother’s café. This sort of thing had become routine: the six of you would meet at Topanga’s and do your homework and just _be_ with each other and it’s great, most of the time, at least.

You decide to opt out of tonight’s study session, though. Your friends – they understand of course. It’s not very Riley of you to not show up to school and it’s even less Riley of you to voluntarily stay home as oppose to with your friends – unless there’s a very good reason, and apparently, tonight, the whole ‘I’m sick’ trope _has_ to be enough.

In actual fact, you plan to spend the next hour reading more about what you discovered last night. You’re lost, to say the least – considerably lost, and who can blame you? You’ve discovered this new information about yourself and it would make sense to tell someone but _something’s_ holding you back: this sickly feeling in your gut that you don’t quite understand yet. Whatever it is; it’s much stronger than you are.

(By the time your parents arrive home from their date night and Auggie’s sound asleep, you’ve decided you’re pansexual. You’ve also decided you’ll never tell a soul.)

-x-

Wednesday’s okay. In fact, Wednesday’s great. You wake up with an honest smile spread lazily across your face, you’re motivated enough to get dressed _before_ Maya shows up and you have plenty of time to actually join your parents for breakfast.

Maya arrives at seven, your heart does that annoying flip – but only for a minute and then you’re off to school, as happy as ever. But that was Wednesday and by Thursday, Wednesday goes to shit.

Because on Thursday, you wake up to six miss calls and twelve unread messages from _Missy fucking Bradford._

(The two of you are on better terms now that middle school’s been and gone but you’d be lying if you said your relationship was, well, ‘repaired’)

You’ve no idea why Missy’s just suddenly decided to talk to you after months of cold-hearted ignorance. In spite of that, you unlock your phone and regret it immediately.

A picture. She sent you a picture.

Actually, twelve pictures.

All of Maya and Lucas.

Maya and Lucas hugging.

Maya and Lucas holding hands.

Maya’s head on Lucas’ shoulder.

And,

Maya and Lucas _kissing_.

By the lockers.

By _your_ locker.

And holy shit, that _hurts._ You scan the pictures a million times over, hoping and praying that in some other universe there’s a logical explanation behind _all_ of this.

(But of course, there isn’t. And you know that.)

You want to pretend you never noticed, you want to pretend you didn’t see this coming and you want to pretend that all those looks and all those times they hung out alone together meant as little to them as it did to everyone else.

(Everyone, except you.)

You _should_ feel angry; you _should_ be yelling or screaming or worse. You _should_ be fucking furious.

But you’re not. And that’s the thing. You’re not. You could _never_ resent them. They’re Lucas and Maya – two of your favourite people in the whole world.

You’re _not_ mad. Just numb.

But that numbness; oh, god, it burns. It feels like your lungs have finally just _collapsed_. Like your heart’s on the verge of slowing and then giving up all together.

But the way you see it: the pain’s solely a metaphor; It doesn’t exist but at the same time, it does and it’s _so, so_ powerful, so unsurpassable yet not _real_ enough to kill you.

Some part of you - some place _beneath_ all the absence of feeling - still wants answers. You want to know why they didn’t tell you or if they ever thought to. You want to know what it would have been like if they ever got round to telling you themselves.

(Deep down, you know you can’t blame them. Deep down you know you can’t blame _her_ because she’s your best friend and she was _just_ trying to protect you.)

(You used to like him, right?)

(It makes sense… right?)

 

The next half hour is spent staring into space. Your head’s resting on your mom’s lap. You’re in the bay window. It’s silent, brittle. And Topanga’s delicate hands are carefully weaving their way through your hair. She doesn’t utter a word. She doesn’t ask what’s wrong (and you don’t plan on telling her), she just sits with you and somehow, everything feels okay again.

(Even if it’s just for a second.)

“Can we stay home today? You ask, “Just the two of us?”

“Of course, sweetie,” she says, planting a soft kiss at the beginning of your hairline.

There’s another brief moment of peaceful silence before your mom says, “Maya texted, by the way.”

You hold your breath. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, what did she want?” you ask and she says, in that calm, soothing way, “She just wanted to let you know she’s going to school with Lucas today. I guess that’s a good thing, right? Seeing as you’re staying home.”

You close your eyes and bite your lip.

(You don’t want to cry, not here, not now, not in front of your mom.)

“Yeah,” you say, after a second, “yeah, I guess it is.”

(And the whole thing starts all fucking over again.)

-x-

It takes two days of not-so-subtle avoidance for the first text to come through. It’s Saturday, you’re home alone, perched in front of the TV, wrapped up in a very fuzzy, very purple blanket; a large bowl of popcorn at arm’s length.

(It’s a very traditional Saturday at the Matthews’ apartment.)

The text’s from Zay and it says: 

**_ur not at topanga’s. that’s the fourth time this week. what’s the matter, sugar?_ **

While you appreciate his concern – and you _really_ do – you decide against texting back. You hate ignoring your friends but you hate seeing Maya and Lucas together even more.

And if Zay’s at Topanga’s, so is Lucas. And if Lucas is at Topanga’s, so is Maya and there’s no way you’re willing to deal with that.

You’ve spent most of your day online in a desperate attempt to find _some_ way to deal with your seemingly unwanted feelings. But after a long four hours of browsing and nothing _but_ browsing, you give up.

(You find nothing but a series of long, in-depth articles about how ‘acceptance is important’ and ‘how to act on your feelings.’)

It’s bullshit. It’s all bullshit because – though you’d never say it out loud – you want to get _rid_ of your feelings, not embrace them.

(That way everyone gets to be happy.)

Your mom says it’d be good for you to spend a day in front of the TV; just sitting back and doing nothing of any utmost importance. She says it’ll help you relax. And you want so desperately for her to be right, but here you are, watching and re-watching all the dumbest romantic movies you happen to have laying around the house.

(And it’s not at all relaxing, rather, obnoxiously repetitive.)

The plot’s always the same: guy likes the girl, girl’s with someone else, you’ve got the super excessive, super unrealistic build up and then – after some elaborate climax that probably involves a great load of betrayal and infidelity – guy gets the girl. Then you’ve got the really lame, really straight white couple kissing in the rain and before you know it, you’ve got a full-scale image to throw on the front cover of yet another _Nicholas Sparks_ book.

Either that or some twisted tale that puts the main characters in what would be an inevitably awkward situation for anyone and everyone, except, apparently, the main fucking characters.

Point being, whatever happens, everyone always ends up living their own twisted version of a ‘happily ever after.’

(Everyone except the guy who got dumped and, well, you. Who’s subconsciously crying and very shamelessly throwing fistfuls of popcorn at the TV screen.)

In the heat of the heavily exaggerated first hour of _The Notebook_ , you fail to notice when a familiar blonde slips through the front door and takes the open spot beside you on the floor. You don’t actually seem to acknowledge her presence at all. That is, of course, until the TV shuts off and she wraps her arms, firmly, around your waist.

“How are you?” Maya asks, a visibly sad smile playing on her lips.

(You stare blankly at the spot where the wall meets the floor.)

“Hey,” she says. “Look at me.”

“Let’s go to Topanga’s.” You stand and take three long strides towards the door in a tragically worthless attempt to dodge every last one of Maya’s demands. It works well enough. For around 0.2 seconds.

(She grabs your wrist before you have a chance to leave.)

“No,” she says. The sharpness in her voice is more than evident and it very nearly makes you flinch. _Nearly._

“Riles, something’s really wrong,” she says, so sure of herself it stings. “And we’re not going anywhere till you tell me what it is.”

There’s a pause. A prolonged, fragile silence. And you take a moment to go over your options. You could a) _tell her everything_ or b) _not do that._

“Riles?” She’s looking at you now and all these thoughts are running through your head and—

“I’m fine,” you lie, tugging your wrist free and leaving before she has the chance to stop you.

-x-

They’re happy to see you, they all are.

You greet them with a warm smile and take your regular seat - the empty corner beside Farkle. Zay flashes you a knowing smirk from across the booth, Smackle mutters a kind ‘Hello, it’s nice to see your face again’ and Farkle orders you a cup of coffee – lots of cream, lots of sugar – just the way you like it. Lucas turns up with a small bowl of ice cream in one hand and a chocolate milkshake in the other and, upon spotting you, asks if you’re feeling any better. To which you respond, “I’m getting there.” He nods and says, “That’s good,” huge smile, too happy eyes, you thinking, _Yeah, it’s fucking fantastic._

Maya walks in after a minute or two and orders a hot chocolate before stepping over to your table and slipping into the seat across from you.

“You did this?” Farkle asks, taking a sip of his tea and falling further back into his seat. “Nope, she did it all by herself,” she replies.

(You raise your eyebrows in some jumbled assortment of amusement and disbelief.)

 

An hour later, your fourth refill of coffee almost completely gone, you excuse yourself from the table. “I’m going to get more coffee” you say to which Maya responds, “Make sure you get decaf, hon.”

Topanga’s is almost completely empty for a Saturday and it’s somewhat satisfying to see every booth clear of sweaty teenagers and study guides that don’t actually ever get used.

“Riley?” Katy, Maya’s mother, smiles and says, “It’s been a while, how’ve you been?”

“Actually, it’s been about three days” you say, earning a tiny laugh from Katy – who, and you don’t mean to notice, resembles her daughter in every given way.

“Refill?” she asks and you nod, placing your empty paper cup on the surface of the counter. She disappears in the back and you take a seat on one of the stools.

You tell yourself you came over here purely for more caffeine and you tell yourself you want more coffee because it tastes so damn good. And, in fairness, that’s only half true. Coffee’s great but sitting at the same table as the newly established couple – who, by the way, haven’t once mentioned anything about their ‘secret relationship’ – is simply torture.

“Hey, Sugar.” You jump incidentally in response to the voice and turn around to face the source of the sound.

And stood there, in all his Texas glory, is the last person you’d expect to see.

“Zay,” you breathe out, allowing your shoulders to drop, relieved, to say the least.

“Yeah, it’s just me,” he says, walking towards you and before you’re able to tell him you’re okay and he should go back to the table, he pulls you into a long overdue hug. You relax on impulse and something about being in his arms makes you feel so safe. He smells like vanilla shampoo and expensive cologne and all things secure and soothing and you hug back with so much force, you fear his ribs might break.

(He doesn’t let go until Katy returns with your drink.)

You’re quick to wipe away a stray tear as he loosens his grip. “Thanks, Ms. Hart,” you manage, taking your fifth cup of coffee from Katy’s hands. “And thank you, Zay.” He smiles, takes the stool beside you and pulls you into his side. “I really needed that.”

“I know you don’t want to talk about it right now,” he says. “But when you do, I’m right here.”  You hug him again, this time with less force and he asks, “How about a sleep over? All of us. At your place?” You nod into his shirt, “Yeah, I’d love that.”

(He pulls away, you thank Katy again for the coffee and the two of you walk back to your table.)

You’re happy.

-x-

Somehow, you managed to convince your parents to let you have the whole gang over for the night. And surprisingly, it didn’t take an awful lot of persuasion, in fact, they were oddly open to the offer. They’re spending the night at some fancy hotel on the other side of New York, Auggie’s spending the weekend in Washington with your Uncle Eric and she says that your friends can stay, as long as there are no surprise parties or ‘unexpected guests.’

Everyone shows up at nine and by 9:15, the lot of you are piled on the couch; popcorn and too much ice cream on the coffee table and _Alice in Wonderland_ blasting on the TV.

 

(You’re ten minutes into the movie when you spot Lucas and Maya and you’re half way through the movie when you decide you’ve had enough.)

Smackle and Farkle are sat on the floor, legs crossed, hand-in-hand and backs against the couch. Zay is midway through his third bowl of popcorn, Lucas and Maya are heavily engrossed by the screen, their bodies sickeningly close together, and you’ve been in this fixed position for the last hour.

You’re staring at them, subconsciously, to a degree, and you genuinely feel as though your head could explode.

Zay excuses himself for a bathroom break and you try _so fucking hard_ to steady your breathing. You feel so bad for feeling so hurt because you know you can’t have her. She was never truly yours. She’s straight and she’s perfect and she loves Lucas Friar and it stings _so_ bad.

Forty-three heartbeats later, your phone buzzes in your lap.

**come to your room!!**

(For the first time in the last month, you actually want to talk.)

You stand to leave but the girl you’ve been avoiding all night is quick to catch your hand.

(You have to remind yourself not to flinch.)

“Where ya’ going, Honey?” she asks in that sweet Maya way and it takes everything inside you _not_ to break. “I need my charger” you say and leave without another word.

 

Zay’s sat at the bay window when you open your bedroom door, tapping his foot and scrolling through his phone. “Zay?” He looks up and you recognize that look immediately.

It’s the same look Farkle gave you after Texas.

The same look Lucas gave you when you tried dating.

And the same look Maya’s been giving you for weeks.

It’s like he’s trying too hard to figure you out.

He gestures for you to sit but, instead, you reach for the window and climb out on to the fire escape.

(You’re finally able to breathe.)

Zay follows suit. “How are things?” he asks, throwing his feet over the edge, past the cold metal bars.

“I don’t know.”

“Do you not know or do you just not want to tell me?”

 “I’m just--“you blow out a mouthful of air “--I don’t know. I’m just not feeling well.”

“In that case, you ‘haven’t been feeling well’ for the last _month_.”

“Yeah, well, I’m tired, I guess.”

“That’s not it.”

“You’re right, it’s not.”

He smiles, victoriously, and urges for you to continue.

Somewhere deep down, you know you want to. But at the same time, you don’t know if you should. So, instead, you take a deep breath and say, “You know what? Just forget I said anything.”

“Riley—“

“It’s not important.”

“Riley, you don’t have to tell me right away. You don’t actually have to tell me at all.”

“No,” you say. “I want to tell you.” And that’s faintly true. “I just need some time.” Which is also faintly true.

“That’s okay too, Sugar,” he says, standing and brushing off his jeans. “I’m right here if you ever need to talk.” And with that, he’s gone.

 

You’re sat at the fire escape for the next fifty minutes. It doesn’t feel like fifty minutes. Actually, it feels like five.

Sometime between talking to Zay and now, you let yourself slip into _that_ place; that godforsaken zone where it’s just you and your thoughts and your feelings and your tears and the fire escape and the rain that’s just started to fall.

 You’re sat with your knees to your chest, your arms wrap around your legs so tightly; as if gripping onto dear life. Like, if you let go, you may end up fading even faster than you already are.

(Admittedly, that doesn’t seem like too bad of an option right now.)

You’re crying and crying and crying and you can’t fucking stop.

You decide it’s your fault. It’s your fault for figuring yourself out and it’s your fault for falling too hard and loving her too much and it’s exhausting, but you can’t stop. It’s like she’s a drug, _your_ drug, that you didn’t know you were taking until right now because losing track of time and forgetting and aching and craving and loving are all side effects of _her_.

                         (And you’ve only just realized you’ve been addicted forever.)      

“Honey?” Says the voice that makes you clench your jaw. You wipe away your fresh tears with the sleeve of your flannel and focus on the buildings across from you; the buildings where perfect families live. With happily married couples and their put together daughters. _Straight_ daughters. With crushes on guys from the subway and not their best friends.

“Honey,” Maya says again, lowering herself beside you and snaking her arms around your waist. You don’t say a word. “Honey, please talk to me.”

You turn, reluctantly, and the second your eyes meet, you break into a fit of sobs and you know you’ve lost the chance to just _lie one more time_. She holds you even tighter, rubbing your back in small circles and whispering into your hair.

“Shh, Honey. It’s okay.”

“We’ll get through this together.”

“It’s okay. You’re okay.”

You want her to be right. You want to believe that you’re fine or that you could be. You want to believe that you could either destroy this desire or live in some twisted third space where it’s just you and her and a collection of blurred faces in the background that neither of you pay attention to. Where you _can_ get through this together. Where you love her and she loves you too and there’s no uncertainty or prospect of reckless abandon. Where everything’s good and right and--

“Riley?”

“Yes, Peaches.”

“Come inside, It’s cold out here.”

(You hadn’t noticed.)

 

The minute you make it through the window, Maya disappears into the bathroom and comes back with a towel. “Here,” she says, wrapping it around your shoulders and locking the window. “This is the bay window,” she says, pulling her legs up and curling into your side. “This is where we talk about our problems… are you ready to talk?”

It’s hard to respond to that. Sure, you want to talk. You _need_ to talk. To anyone but her. You don’t want to lie to your best friend but you don’t want to risking losing her either. So, instead, you don’t say anything at all. And instead, she talks.

“We miss you, Riles,” she says. Her breath tickles your neck the way it always has and you know you shouldn’t love it but you do. And then you don’t because you know this is how it’s going to be now: she gets too close to you, you get too attached and then she runs off to her too put together boyfriend with the accent and the jawline and the hair and the eyes; the overall counterpart of every checklist of every teenage girl in New York City.

“Please come back,” she whispers and at that moment, you _know_ you can’t keep this to yourself any longer because you fear the impact may actually kill you.

“Let’s go,” you say, removing the towel from your shoulders and leaving her for the third time in the last twelve hours.

 

“There you are!” exclaims Farkle when the two of you enter the living room; Maya stood in the doorway and you a few feet ahead.

They’re watching some lame reality TV show. Smackle’s fast asleep, Farkle’s hogging the popcorn, Lucas is actually watching the screen and Zay’s staring right at you.

“Zay, can I talk to you?” you ask, perhaps a little too forwardly. “Sure,” he replies, standing from his spot on the couch and walking over to the kitchen.

(Naturally, you follow.)

He opens the fridge and pulls out a Coke, allowing the door to swing shut behind him. “What do you wanna talk abo—“

“I’m gay.”

He doesn’t react.

“Did you seriously not hear that?! I said I’m gay! Well, not gay. I’m actually pansexual. It’s where you like every—“

“Riley. Breathe.” 

 “Why aren’t you reacting?!” you whisper-yell, “I’m telling you I’m not straight and you’re not reacting. Why?”

“Because,” he says, leaning on the counter and taking a long swig of his drink, “I have eyes.”

“Okay, what the hell is that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you look at her like she hung the stars.”

“Who?!”

“Don’t play dumb, Sugar.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say, meaning _please shut up._

“Maya. I’m talking about Maya. You know I’m talking about Maya. Maya, Maya, Maya, Maya, May—“

“Okay, shut up!” you yell, throwing your hand over his mouth, “She’s literally right over there.” You turn to point at the couch with your free hand and in response to your outburst, they’re staring. All of them. Except Lucas, who’s still engrossed in whatever’s on TV and Smackle, who’s, well, sleeping.

 “So I’m right?” he asks.

“No!”

He raises his eyebrows, undoubtedly amused, and you’re more than willing to bitchslap that annoying smirk off of his face.

“Okay. Fine. Yes. You’re right. But there’s something else.”

He’s about to respond, one of those overconfident one liners most likely, when Lucas yells from across the room, “Hey guys, come watch this!”

“After you, m’lady,” says Zay, throwing his hands out towards the couch and you decide you’ll finish this conversation some other time.

“Dork.”

-x-

You wake up on the couch the next morning. You’ve been up most of the night and you’d be lying if you said you weren’t completely out of it.

“Good afternoon, Riley,” says Smackle, upon noticing your mindless stretching. “Oh, hey, Smackle,” you yawn, blinking the exhaustion from your eyes, “What time is it?”

“It’s noon,” she says. “You’ve been sleeping all morning.”

“Riles, you’re awake!” You hear someone yell from across the room. That someone being a girl. That girl being blonde. And that blonde being Maya.

“That I am,” you say, sitting up. She walks towards you and sits to your right, leaning back on the couch. “How’d you sleep?” she asks, and you say, in that fake Riley way, “Fine.”

(You both know it’s a lie.)

“The guys said to meet them at Topanga’s. You up for it?”

“I guess,” you say and she says, “Well, you should probably get ready.”

“Yeah, okay.”

-x-

The boys are practically beating each other up when you arrive. Lucas and Zay are midway through a heated argument and Farkle’s yelling over the top of them: “It’s just a game, for god’s sake!” Something about sports, you reckon. Football maybe.

You make your way over to them and when Maya clears her throat, the racket dies down. “It’s nice to see you too,” she says, climbing over Lucas’ lap and taking the window seat. Smackle sits beside Farkle and you slip in next to Zay. “So it looks like Riley finally woke up,” says Farkle. “Yeah, she did,” Maya laughs, leaning into Lucas’ side. You shift uncomfortably in your seat and Zay whispers, loud enough for only you to hear, “You sure you’re okay with this?” You nod, not because you’re okay with this but because you want to be.

 

 

 

For you, there’s no such thing as a fast escape and right now, that’s all you really want. The café isn’t much busier than it was an hour ago but it suddenly feels as though the place is flooded with teenagers and adults and infants and you’re thrown in the corner with no space to breathe.

Lucas and Maya have started their own conversation and – while you’re trying your best to subtly eavesdrop - from where you’re sat, it’s simply a compilation of whispering and straight faces and then, when you least expect it, there’s laughing. A lot of it. And every time it happens, you snap to attention and, for a second, you’re in awe because Maya’s happy and smiling but the moment you remember who she’s laughing and smiling with -the moment you remember it’s not you - it starts all over again.

Your phone buzzes a few times, revamping your senses and snapping you back to reality. They’re texts. Texts from Zay. You give him a look and he gestures for you to read them.

**sugar, stop staring at them**

**just breathe**

**u know that’s not what’s happening**

A sigh of frustration escapes your lips and you text back immediately. The conversation goes a little something like this:

**Oh yeah?! Because I think that’s exactly what’s happening!!**

**they wouldn’t do that to you, Riley. You know they wouldn’t.**

**Well, I’m finding that harder and harder to believe**

**where the heck did this even come from??**

**They’re dating, Zay. I have proof!!**

**wat kind of proof? O_o**

**A picture.**

**send it.**

And so you do and when you do, you glance over at Zay, half expecting his face to fall but instead, when his phone vibrates he lets out a prolonged chuckle. You furrow your eyebrows.

(To say you’re confused would be an understatement.)

**What’s so funny?**

**maya and lucas?? please. that’s so obviously photoshopped.**

**What?**

**ok, who put this crazy idea in your head??**

**What makes you think someone put this crazy idea in my head?**

**bc you’re riley matthews. you see the best in people and you’d never assume the worst of your friends. who sent it, Sugar?**

**Missy.**

**Missy Bradford??**

**Yes, Missy Bradford, how many other Missy’s do we know?!**

**and you believed her??**

**Yeah, I guess.**

**well don’t worry. they’re not dating. believe me, if they were, you’d be the first to know.**

There’s a pause. A brief moment of realization. Of course they’re not dating. Maya wouldn’t do that to you and frankly, neither would Lucas. Right?

“We’re getting more ice cream,” says Zay, grabbing your arm and dragging you away from the rest of the group before anyone has the chance to ask questions. He lets go when you reach the counter and says, “Is that what’s been bothering you?”

You glance down, embarrassed, and Zay’s features fall into place: confusion, sympathy, an attempt at understanding.

“I swear to you, they’re not dating.”

“And what makes you so sure? How are you so certain when all they do is hang out with each other? They’re so close, Zay, why can’t you see that?”

You look up at him, eventually, your eyes welling with tears, and he’s dead silent.

“Make me understand, Zay. Because the last time I checked, they were cosying up to each other at _my_ fucking apartment. They belong together. They’re happy together.” Your voice cracks and you let it. “She doesn’t need me anymore.”

“Riley, please don’t say that—“

“Say what? It’s true. You know it. I know it. _She_ knows it. She doesn’t need me anymore.”

“Riley,” he says, carefully inching towards you, “Maya loves you more than anyone else in the world. You know that.”

“Well, Zay. You know what else I know?” (You wipe your tears before they’re able to fall.) “I know that there comes a time when you start replacing your best friend with someone more important to you. Your top priority changes and the people you leave behind are forgotten about. Forever. Don’t try and sugar-coat it because that’s the fucking truth.”

Your hands start to shake and he doesn’t utter a word.

“Tell them I’m not feeling well,” you say, shoving your trembling hands in your pockets and walking out the door with your head down.

(You don’t sleep that night. Or the night after that. Or the night after that. And when you finally do, you’re so far gone it burns.)

-x-

**\- Four years later -**

 

(It’s the first week of the twelfth grade when she stops coming through your window and it’s your first week of college when you stop expecting her to.)

You barely made it through your last year of high school. Some point in between fall and spring, you stopped caring about your future and you’d be lying if you said that relentless voice in your head hadn’t followed you through the remainder of your education.

It started small. At first, you’d skip a few classes here and there and when Farkle would ask you about it, you’d tell him you knew the content already. Of course, he knew you didn’t. He knew that something inside you was deteriorating too quickly for even you to keep up. Which is why he always tried a little too hard to play catch up during the review exercises at the end of each segment, and it’s also why he continued to do so even after all the times you yelled in his face, “I don’t need fucking Science, Minkus!”

But when you decided to move out of your parents’ apartment and into your own halfway through the year, things only got worse. You leapt from missing classes to missing essays. From missing essays to missing grades. From missing grades to missing whole chunks of time. Somewhere between losing hope and losing sleep, you discovered the lethal comfort that came along with a few pills, a few shot glasses and a huge bottle of poison between your lips.

( _Poison being vodka. Vodka being your only source of joy.)_

Somehow, you all ended up at the same school. All except Smackle, who went off to Yale to expand her oh-so-brilliant-mind. Farkle was supposed to go with her but, with the right amount of persuasion, he decided against it.

You’re all in different classes for the most part – Farkle exceling in every one of his recommended courses and Zay all caught up in his sudden interest in Philosophy - but that doesn’t mean you don’t get to see each other every day. Most days, Farkle and Zay come by your apartment after class and most days, you’re too drunk to even recognise them. They don’t leave you, though. Not once. And by the next morning – when you wake up with an insane hangover and too many mascara tracks staining your face – they’re by your bed with aspirin and water and they ask you to try to stop and you promise you will but your promise never lasts more than eight hours because what’s the point of staying sober when you’re staying sober without _her_?

After all this time, she’s still your one true constant and after all this time, your longing for her has only grown impossibly stronger. You’ve tried so fucking hard to forget her but every time you attempt to - despite the blurry fog of your vision - she’s there. Every time you close your eyes, you see her and nothing else. She’s always somewhere in the background; a passing theme in a crowd of blank faces or the first thing you see before you black out. For whatever reason, through the same stuff that erases your memory, whole winters and summers at a time, she’s never _not_ there.

But when you sober up, she disappears again. Not entirely but certainly for the most part. Because while you’re trapped in your apartment with your own toxic company, she’s on the path to building her life. She made it through high school with flying colors and you want to believe her constant need to study and do better is what separated you in the first place. Neither of you are entirely sure when it happened but at some point, you got a little too caught up in your own separate worlds to pay much attention to each other; with you focusing on repairing yourself and her clogging up all her free time with coffee dates and Lucas Friar.

(You never had the heart to ask them if they’d been dating all these years.)

You know exactly _why_ you started avoiding her, though. In spite of your newfound addiction, you can never ever forget that. You don’t think she remembers it, mostly because she made it more than clear it didn’t mean anything to her and if it didn’t mean anything to her, she’d have no reason to replay it over and over again, the way you’ve learnt to. As though she wasn’t the one who took you by the face and kissed you with so much force you melted. It was sloppy and far from perfect but you remember every second of it, every detail; the way her delicate hands got caught up in your hair, how she almost spilled her fourth can of beer all over your _BADLANDS_ t-shirt or how her mouth tasted of alcohol and peaches.

(How you felt alive for the first time in a long time.)

 But the one part you’ll never forget is when you finally pulled away to catch your breath and she leaned into your ear and whispered, “Thanks for helping me practice, Honey.”

(You swear, that day, a piece of you shattered.)

-x-

“Grab your stuff, we’re going out,” announces Zay, bursting through your bedroom door at three in the morning. “What the fuck is going on?” you yell, jerking upright and watching in confusion as Farkle hauls himself through the doorway with a few bags and the keys to his car. You’re not stoned. Not tonight, at least. Tonight, you’re thinking. Thinking about _her_. And where she could be. Where she’s off for the summer. If her and Lucas are doing okay.

“Listen,” says Farkle, “We’re not letting you rot in here all summer, so please, just get your things and come on.” He pauses, leaning down and resting his hands on his knees.

“Well, could you at least tell me where you’re taking me?” you ask and Zay says, “We’ll tell you in the car, come on.”

And so, for whatever reason, you listen to them. You get out of bed, despite the fact you were lying awake, throw on a jacket and grab a backpack from your closet.

(You have a bunch of them lined up for when you feel like running.)

“Great, let’s go.”

-x-

**Day 1**

You’ve been sat in the car for an hour and a half and the guys haven’t told you anything. “Where are we going?” you ask for the hundredth time and you get the same vague response: “You’ll know when we stop for gas.”

When you _do_ stop for gas, Farkle rushes inside the store while Zay throws himself out of the backseat to fill up the tank.

“You gonna tell me now or what?” you ask through the rolled down window. He laughs and says, “Roadtrip.”

You don’t hate the idea. Actually, you could really use one. “And you couldn’t just you tell me that when you broke into my home?”

“Well, we needed to get you far enough away. We didn’t want to give you the chance to opt out.”

“That’s fair.”

Farkle comes back with a bunch of snacks and drinks and once the three of you have piled into his beat-up Toyota - you riding shotgun, Farkle in the driver’s seat and Zay in the back - you take off.

“So, did you tell her?” Farkle asks.

“Yeah, I told her.”

“You guys know I’m right here, don’t you?” They break out into a forced chorus of laughter and you roll your eyes. “Well, how about some music?” you say, plugging your phone in and kicking your feet up on the dashboard.

(Time to forget about her once and for all.)

-x-

It’s around 11am when Farkle pulls the car over. Zay’s fast asleep in the back, you’re about as wide awake as one can be and you realize you’ve stopped in the middle of nowhere. Farkle steps out and you do the same, tightening your thin denim jacket around your shoulders. You’re at the top of a hill, there’s a lake at the very bottom, three trees on either side and the sun makes everything look that bit more perfect. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” he asks. You nod your head, “Yeah, it’s gorgeous.”

You’ve no clue where you are but, if anything, you know you feel much lighter than you did back in New York. The view helps. You’d do anything to capture it. And as if through some twisted telepathy: “Here” he says, handing you a polaroid camera, “I brought along a few of them. You know, for stops like these. I just thought you may wanna take some pictures.”

“Yeah, thanks, Farkle.”

You recognize the camera immediately. It’s the one Maya bought you for your sixteenth. You remember telling her it’s too much and her arguing, _“Don’t worry, Riles, I’ve been saving up for it.”_ And you also remember all the times the two of you would venture down to Central Park in the middle of the night; you taking pictures, her sketching them.

“Where are we?” A tired voice asks from behind you. You turn to see Zay dragging a blanket across the grass, his eyes half closed and his hair flattened in weird places. “Welcome to Ohio,” says Farkle, the smile on his face says it all, he’s ecstatic.

“We drove through Pennsylvania?”

“Yeah, we did.”

“Hey, Riley?” Farkle says.

“Yeah.”

“How long has it been since you’ve driven a car?”

“I don’t know. A while.”

You snap a shot of the lake.

“In that case, why don’t you take the wheel next?”

“Okay.”

And with that, you tie your hair up, trek back to the car, climb in to the driver’s side and turn the key in the ignition.

“What are you guys waiting for?”

-x-

**Day 4**

Maya’s with you. You’re both sat on the fire escape of your apartment, lazily making out. It’s December you think, though you’ve lost track of the days. Her hands are in your hair, yours are resting on the sides of her face, she’s sat in your lap, legs wrapped around your waist and all your worries have wondered into oblivion. She pulls away at last and rests her forehead against yours.

 “I have to leave,” she whispers and the crack in her voice sends a burn through your chest. An off sensation cutting through to your shoulders. “What do you mean?” you ask. She turns her head to look at the bottom of the fire escape and your breath hitches when you see _Lucas Friar_ stood under a broken floodlight. He’s wearing a suit – black jacket, black shirt, purple tie, - staring straight ahead, absent. And just like that, all the hope, all the bliss, all the temporary happiness, it bleeds from your veins. “I just have to go,” she sighs, climbing off your lap and racing towards him.

(The ache’s too familiar.)

“What’s the rush?” she asks him and he replies, the same blank expression playing on his face, “We’re going to be late to the altar.”

“Who’s getting married.”

A pause.

“Us.”

She leaves you and doesn’t look back and suddenly, you feel like you’re drowning. Like the air’s being sucked from your lungs all at once. You want _so_ desperately to go after them and yell at them and make them understand how _you_ feel, how you _have_ been feeling for _so_ long because they’re together now, they’re off to their wedding now; the wedding you weren’t even invited to and they never had the audacity to bring it up, not once and--

You wake up.

You wake up, a sweating, panting mess, next to Zay who’s holding onto you for dear life.

“Shh, Riley, it’s okay.”

“Just breathe, Sugar.”

“You’ll be fine.”

“C’mon, let’s get some air.”

The sun’s just setting and you’re parked outside a small 24/7 café. Zay helps you out of the car and the sound of the door slamming is enough to wake Farkle in the backseat.

Once you make it inside, Zay leads you over to a corner booth. The café’s mostly empty, except for the woman who’s wiping down tables – earphones in, hair tied back, bright red lipstick – and the old lady behind the counter who hasn’t even noticed you’ve walked in.

The guys are smart enough not to ask about your dream. They know what happens perfectly well anyway. It’s a recurring nightmare and you remember the first time you had it so vividly:

It was during your first month of college. The night of the incident. The night Maya kissed you at your first frat party. The last time you were close to her. You remember staying with Zay that night; him picking you up at three in the morning and shaking you awake at four. Calling Farkle at 4:15 and soothing you back to health by five.

You don’t talk about it.

You never talk about it.

When you’re drunk, you don’t lash out, you don’t ramble or yell. Instead, you just cry. Sometimes hysterically, sometimes silently.

(Both are scary as all hell.)

You’ll talk when you’re ready.

(Though you fear you never will be.)

“What should I order?”

“Scotch.”

“Riley. Don’t.”

“Whatever.”

-x-

**Day 6**

You’re back on the open road, hands tight around the wheel, _Halsey_ blasting through the speakers, polaroids and receipts taped to the ceiling dancing in the wind, hair loose and Zay singing at the top of his lungs.

You end up pulling over and parking a quarter of the way up some beach in Nebraska. You roll the windows up, pull the key out of the ignition and stumble out onto the hot sand.

 

You sit by the shoreline, breathing in the salty air and watching as the waves crash against each other. You like this. You like the inconsistency of this whole trip. You like that you’re not in New York, you like that you’re on a beach and not in the city, you like that you’re not trapped in the captivity of your apartment and you like that you have no idea where you’re going next.

“Hey,” Farkle’s voice is soft and calming and you like that he’s here too.

“Hi,” you say, vacant.

“Can I sit?”

“Sure.”

And so he sits. He sits and he wraps his arms around you and you _don’t_ pull away. Instead, you lean into him and let him hold you for a minute.

“Are you feeling any better?”

“Kind of.”

“Kind of?”

“Yeah, kind of.”

“Well, what would help?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes you do.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“So, what?”

“Well, it’s a who.”

“Who?”

“You know.”

“I want you to say it.”

You sigh.

Your conversation’s interrupted by a huge splash that causes the both of you to jerk your heads towards the water.

“Oh my gosh, it’s fucking freezing!”

Farkle bursts out laughing and you feel a small smile make its way up to your lips.

You snap a picture of Zay and his flailing limbs, trying and failing to climb out onto the sand.

“You know we’re down to like four good towels, right?” you say.

“I probably should have thought this through.”

Farkle helps him out and he collapses onto the sand.

“You’re such an idiot.”

“Yeah. Yeah I know.”

-x-

**Day 8**

 

The car breaks down. Of course the car breaks down.

Zay says it’s because the tank needs refilling and Farkle’s a pent up mess, screaming things like:

“IT’S LITERALLY TWELVE FUCKING YEARS OLD!”

“OF COURSE IT’S GONNA BREAK DOWN!”

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME? THEY CAN’T FUCKING FIX IT TILL THURSDAY!”

Today’s Tuesday. You decide to stay in a motel.

You’re in Utah and you reckon you’ll be stuck there for a while.

The motel’s barely standing but it’s all you can afford on top of gas money, food money and getting the car fixed. The three of you are forced to stay in a one-person bedroom. The paint’s chipping, there’s a hole in the wall and Farkle claims there’s a rat’s nest under the bed.

 _You’re_ okay though.

The car breaking down and Farkle screaming is just another thing to worry about. Just another thing to take your mind off of _her_. And you’d much rather deal with this.

“Hey, Zay?”

“Yeah, Sugar?”

“Where are we going? You know, when the car gets fixed.”

“Well, we were thinking of driving up to California.”

“California?”

“Yeah. There’s so much there and I have a friend we can stay with for a while.”

“You have a friend in California?”

“Believe it or not.”

“California’s nice.”

“Yeah it is.”

-x-

**Day 10**

The car’s up and running. The repair guy says there was a problem with the engine and it shouldn’t happen again.

You don’t mind.

-x-

You love to drive. You didn’t know it until a few days ago but yes, you _love_ to drive. It’s soothing and freeing and you tell the guys you’re okay to take the wheel for the rest of the trip.

 

And then, you snap.

 

It’s 11:17pm and the boys are fast asleep. The highway’s almost completely empty and you allow yourself to exceed the speed limit. The windows are rolled down and Halsey’s singing softly in the background.

All you’ve been able to think about for most of the last hour is the road and blonde hair and blue eyes. You know you want to forget about her. Mostly because deep down you know she’s forgotten about you. And the lyrics aren’t helping. The lyrics only make you _need_ her even more and you don’t mean to but within the next twenty minutes, you pull up outside a bar.

 

It’s quiet. Deadly quiet. And the man behind the counter is barely even conscious.

“What will it be?” he asks. His voice is hoarse, thick with phlegm and his beard is layered with thin coats of ash and dirt. He smells like smoke and the whole scene is positively repulsive.

“Give me anything,” you mumble, taking a seat on one of the stools and resting your chin in your hands.

He disappears in the back and you close your eyes, breathing in and out, trying too hard to steady your hands.

He comes back a moment later with a bottle of _something_ and you thank him before throwing your head back and swallowing the whole thing.

(It burns. But you love it.)

You freeze and let the tears fall and within a moment, the man’s back on his feet, taking the empty bottle from your shaky hands and refilling it with the same toxic fluid.

 

It takes two refills for your phone to ring and three for Zay to break through the half-open door. He’s not mad. He’s just concerned. Scared, almost.

“Riley,” he whispers, moving the bottle away from your lips and pulling you into his arms.

“Riley, how much did you take?”

“Hmm.”

“Riley. This isn’t healthy.”

He lifts your chin.

“People aren’t built to bottle things up. It’s okay to talk. Please, just let it all out.”

You don’t say anything and he doesn’t press on. Instead, he throws a fifty-dollar bill on the counter and carefully lifts you into his arms.

“Oh, Riley. When did you become this broken?”

(You wish you knew the answer.)

-x-

**Day 11**

It’s Sunday. And Farkle and Zay convinced you to eat breakfast with them.

You’re at some small diner off the highway and the three of you are sat in a comfortable silence. Farkle’s sipping away at his coffee, a copy of _The Great Gatsby_ in his free hand, Zay’s pouring syrup all over his pancakes and you’re, well, agitated. Anxiously tapping your foot against the tile and trying to ignore the persistent pounding going off in your head.

“What do you think Maya’s up to?”

Zay stops in his tracks and Farkle looks up from his book. It’s the first time you’ve mentioned Maya by name in years and naturally, they’re both surprised.

“I’ve no idea, Riles. What does she usually do during the summer?” Zay says, resting his elbows on the table.

You shrug.

“Well, she used to join us on our family vacations but I guess there’s more important stuff in her life now.”

A laugh escapes your lips; a pained, forced, dry laugh and the guys share a look of apprehension.

“You know, Riley, you don’t have to talk about this if you’re not ready,” Farkle tells you.

“Oh, I’m ready.”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Riley--“

“No. She’s been gone all this time and I’m still tangled up in her mess. My happiness is important too. And if she’s doing _so_ well without me, then I guess I better find a way to do the same thing.”

(You don’t mean to raise your voice.)

“Riley, what actually happened between you two?”

“Honestly, I wish I knew.”

“You don’t know?”

“She left, Farkle. She just left.”

A single tear escapes your eye and you wipe it away, along with a loose strand of hair.

“I don’t know why I’m still so caught up in this… fantasy.”

“Did she ever tell you how _she_ feels?”

“What?”

“Her feelings… about you?”

“She doesn’t have to. I already know.”

“How are you so sure?”

“What are you saying?”

“Was she ever actually with Lucas?”

“What other explanation is there?”

No one says anything.

“Exactly.”

-x-

**Day 14**

“Zay.”

“Yes, Riley.”

“How long till California?”

“Two hours.”

“Good.”

-x-

“So this is where your friend lives?” you ask, stepping out of the car. You’re parked outside a house, one of the big, fancy ones with the marble and the gravel.

 “Yeah, this is it.”

You’d barely made it by four, the highway’s a mess of cars and construction and you’re lucky you got around when you did.

“Is your friend seriously this rich?”

“Apparently.”

Farkle climbs out of the backseat with your luggage and drags it across the gravel and over to the front door – where you and Zay are waiting for him.

“Aren’t you gonna knock?” Zay asks and you say, “Well he’s your friend,” and he says, “Well, my hands are full,” – which is only half true. So you knock on the door three times and a moderately high pitched voice on the inside yells, “Coming!” You give Zay a look, “It’s a chick?” and he puts his hands up in defence, “Hey, your fault for assuming.”

You turn to look at the garden, it’s empty, mostly, except for a few flowers scattered in random places. Lilies. You love lilies. And so far, you love this garden. There’s a car parked in the driveway, it’s white, or it _was_ white, but it’s been painted a few times over in a beautiful assortment of colors – spray paint, you reckon.

Something about the whole view feels too familiar. The flowers, the car. You feel like you’ve seen the car before or perhaps you recognise the pattern.

 

(You glance down at the licence plate and you swear, your heart stops.)

 

You hear the door swing open behind you and--

“Riley?”

Your eyes widen and you think that maybe you should run or hide or both.

But you turn around, anyway.

And stood there – hair pulled back, too-loose flannel, paintbrush in hand – Maya Penelope Hart.

“Hi.”

-x-

There’s a lot to talk about. And while you feel as though you’re better off anywhere but sat uncomfortably on the edge of Maya Hart’s couch, drinking coffee by Maya Hart’s coffee table, all in Maya Hart’s living room, you know you can’t leave without _some_ understanding.

“How’ve you been, Riles?” she asks and you begin to feel a new energy pulsing through your blood and rippling off your shoulder blades.

“Oh, I’ve been _just_ fine,” you snap. “Yeah, I’ve been so fucking happy all this time because one day you just disappeared and left me to deal with it. So, yeah, Maya, I’m great.”

She swallows hard and sets her cup down.

“Riley, please. Just let me explain.”

“I don’t need you to explain, Maya. All I need to know is that you did the one thing you promised to never do.”

Zay clears his throat from the couch across from you. “We’ll leave you two alone,” he says, standing from his seat and practically dragging Farkle out the door.

 “Riles, please.”

“Don’t call me that!”

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, sounding vaguely disappointed and you almost crack.

_Almost._

“It was you and me forever… whatever happened to that?”

“I know, Riley. I know and I’m _so_ fucking sorry, I--”

“No, you’re not.”

“What?”

“You’re not sorry,” your voice is calm, you’re not mad, you’re long passed mad, you’ve spent four fucking years being mad and now you’re just numb.

“Because if you were sorry, you wouldn’t have left me in the first place. You wouldn’t have flown out here and even if you still decided to, you would have at least _told_ me.”

She looks down, her eyes heavy with guilt.

“Do you even know what you did?” you ask. She glances up at you and you know she’s about to cry. “You kissed me. You kissed me at Charlie Gardner’s frat party. You made me feel loved for five minutes. You gave me so much hope and then you just ripped it away.”

“I know,” she whispers, voice breaking. “And I didn’t know you thought of me like that… so I stopped calling. I was scared, Riley.”

“No, you don’t get to cry,” you say. “Not after what you’ve put me through. That’s not an excuse, you could’ve spoken to me.”

“I know. And I should’ve--”

“But you didn’t.”

“Rile—“

“Why didn’t you? Was it because of Lucas?”

“Lucas?”

“Yeah. I thought you were in love with him.”

“Well, I’m not.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

There’s another silence, severely long and uncomfortable and you feel the world’s just paused to laugh at you. That’s when you notice her ring. The ring on Maya’s middle finger. The ring you gave her back when you were kids and she’s playing with it like she used to do in situations like these and _holy fuck, she hasn’t taken it off_. All this time. You thinking she forgot about you and all this time, you trying to forget about her.

You glance down at your own ring, which isn’t on your finger anymore. You grew out of it at seventeen and since then you’ve been wearing it on a gold chain around your neck.

“You didn’t take it off?” you say and she smiles. A real, genuine smile that isn’t accidental at all. “I would never.” You fight the smile that’s dying to spread across your face.

“So why _did_ you leave?”

“I already told you.”

“No, you didn’t.”

“Yeah I did. I was scared.”

“That’s not it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean; it goes deeper than that.”

“How so?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

“I really don’t.”

“I think you do.”

“Fine!”

You smile, triumphantly, and gesture for her to continue.

“I was afraid of losing you,” she says and you try to fight the warmth that spreads through your whole body, “I was afraid that you’d be the one to leave.”

“If you didn’t want to _me_ to leave you, then why did _you_ go?”

She sighs.

“I guess it’s just easier to leave than to get left.”

“I understand.” And you do.

“I love you,” she says, with such sincerity, it scares you to half to death. One part because you know she means it and ninety-nine parts because you love her too.

(You don’t know what you expected, but it wasn’t that.)

“I need to leave,” you whisper, placing a gentle hand over the top of her own. She doesn’t say anything. She just sits there and takes it and it breaks your heart, but you can’t risk getting hurt again.

“I’m sorry,” you say and she nods, wiping the tears from her cheeks.

You take a deep breath and walk slowly towards the door, hot tears burning the back of your eyes.

You leave and let the door close behind you. Bringing a hand up to your mouth to keep from sobbing, you suck in a breath and steadily make your way over to the car. Farkle and Zay are staring at you with such sympathy, your legs almost give out from under you.

Your eyes are trained on the door handle, tears fogging your vision, breathing all wrong and the grinding of your teeth more than audible across the garden.

“This isn’t right,” you say, breathing sharply before turning on your heel and running back towards her house.

You don’t remember pounding on her front door or hauling yourself through her doorframe and you certainly don’t remember grabbing her by the face and kissing her with such fever; like if you separated – you might just die.

She kisses you back with a growing passion and her mouth tastes like peaches and salty tears and you barely notice when the two of you collapse on the floorboards, tangled limbs, wrapped tightly in each other arms, clinging to one another for dear life.

“I’m still mad at you,” you manage, breathless. “And I can’t say I won’t be for a long time but I want to try this. I want to see where this goes.”

She smiles and hugs you and you sort of wish your heart would slow down.

“Maya, I love you too.”

(And you always have.)

-x-

 “Where to now?” Zay asks and Maya says, “Anywhere but here.”

And so, the three of you plus Maya Penelope Hart make it back on the open road, hands loose around the wheel, _Halsey_ blasting through the speakers, polaroids and receipts taped to the ceiling dancing in the wind, hair loose, Maya by your side and Zay singing at the top of his lungs.

 “Ready for this change, Maya?”

“Whatever you want.”

-x-

**Day 75**

It takes a while but you do it. Two months have passed and you’re finally driving back through the city limits, your fingers interlaced with Maya’s.

You’re still mad, just not nearly as mad as before and this time, when Farkle turns the music up, you join in at the chorus and it’s one of those moments you know you’ll have trouble forgetting.

Maya snaps a picture with your camera and tapes it to the ceiling along with all the others.

Your eyes are still dark and your clothes are still black but you’re getting there.  

You’re getting there with _her_.

And you’re okay.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> i was supposed to write a sad ending but it hurt too much so there's this. also, the ewcaya's kinda vague... just ask if you have any questions bout that 'cause it was waaayy too ugh to write O_O


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